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Abram glanced up, placing the pencil on the canvas. “Aye, what use is it? I wonder if Toulmouche feels his fingers too inarticulate for the language of artistry…”

“A poet you are not, my lord. So you are aware, I have sent word to your father that we are yet again run ashore in a foreign land. He may wonder how correspondence is being sent if we are in dire straits, but alas, I have done as you’ve asked. It is his deepest desire for you to return home and support your family. Were he to find out you were working—not to say painting is unsavory, but he would be quite upset. It is his way, my lord.”

“Let me deal with my father. He is likely only wanting me home so I may attend my brother’s wedding. To make a show of McQueen unity and loyalty. Even where it does not exist.”

Before he could curse his family name, the libations were brought to the table and set before them.

Abram lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips. “Here’s to joy, here’s to pain. Drink it down and start again.” Downing the contents of the glass, he set it on the table, watching as Rowan raised his glass and did the same.

“Cheers,” Rowan said, returning his glass to the table.

“You are meant to do that before drinking,” Abram teased.

“In life, reward and punishment have very little to do with being proper.”

“You have me there,” Abram said. “Oh, before I forget… There is a viscount married to one of the Gray daughters. I should think my true identity might be detrimental in establishments such as these. London is a small place, after all.”

“I keep my business to myself, my lord. I have found on this side of town, anyway, very few people inquire. There is a bit of an overcrowding issue, in case you haven’t noticed. The city dwellers seem to be always on the way or arriving. Must be exhausting.”

“I must attest to that, Rowan,” Abram admitted. “Not the wealthy. They seem to have nothing to do other than balls and social outings. The need to put on airs is what I fear most tiresome.”

“I shall honor your wishes, however. You are entitled to your privacy.”

“Thank you, Rowan. What are you doing with your now-empty days? Tell me.”

Rowan chuckled. “Well, I haven’t been to a single brothel or bawdy house since you have committed yourself to being good and true. I have been exploring the gardens and visiting some of the factories. London, despite the number of people crowding the streets, has made many advancements in the way of transportation and manufacturing. It is fascinating, really.”

“Sounds a bit… boring, does it not?”

“Boring is in the eye of the beholder, my lord.”

Abram took a sip of his ale before leveling an exasperated look in Rowan’s direction. “Please, just ‘Aldridge.’ I swear I will not tell my father,” he promised.

“Yes, yes. I will remember. Despite having forgotten in a matter of moments.” Rowan laughed.

“Would you look at that? I never knew you had teeth,” Abram teased.

“That is intentional, Aldridge Fain.”

“Indeed.”

Returning to his sketch, he focused on the soft waves at Miss Orris’s forehead. The curve of her cheek, a feeble attempt to replicate something surely from heaven. Another soft stroke of the jawline before leading the charcoal down her elegant neck. Still not correct, but he was marginally satisfied.

“Aldridge.” Rowan’s voice cut through his consciousness.

He glanced back to the man with a grimace, frustrated that he could not be allowed a few moments.

“We have been sitting in silence for the better part of the hour. I shall leave you to your scribbling.”

An hour? How had he become so distracted? There was something about Miss Gray just beneath the surface. He could not yet determine how she’d managed to bewitch him. “Please accept my regrets. I did not mean to ignore you. My thoughts got away from me.”

“Yes, yes. You are an artist. I shall find something to occupy my time. I trust you shall not miss me.” He stood to leave, brushing lint from his suit. He wore his Irish heritage like a suit of armor with those clothes, never opting for the English style of dress.

“I will finish and we shall have supper, old friend,” Abram promised. He did not feel bad for leaving Rowan to his own devices until he could finish the sketch of his current muse. She was simply divine. To recreate her likeness with exacting precision compelled him.

He had not realized earlier, but the image in his mind’s eye was on her ride through the park. Her braids had come loose, streaming behind her on the black steed. When he saw her dressed in her finery, part of her was restrained. On her horse, however, she was free. Reckless and passionate.

Something in his soul twisted as he drew the curve of her bottom on the saddle of the horse. Her hands holding the reins as she soared, equivalent to the majestic hawk. No, no bird could be so blessed as she.